


Watershed

by iriswallpaper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU backstory, Additional tags to be added as additional chapters are added, Aftermath of Violence, Blood and Violence, Case Fic - Sort of, Crimes & Criminals, Domestic Violence, Drug Use, Frank Hudson commits the murder, Frank Hudson does all the violence, Frank Hudson is a disgusting pig, Frank Hudson is an abusive asshole, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced miscarriage, Implied/referenced pregnancy loss, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Med Student John, Mrs. Hudson whump (sorry!), Murder, Organized Crime, Past Domestic Violence, Past Drug Addiction, Past Drug Use, Past Relationship(s), Past Sexual Abuse, Past Violence, Set in Miami in the early 1990’s, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock John and Hudders are not violent, Sherlock Whump, Slow Build, Slow build Johnlock, Stockholm Syndrome, Uni-age Sherlock, Why Mrs. Hudson gives Sherlock a special rate on rent, but he's not actually in Uni, graphic description of violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 02:28:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11117988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: wa·ter·shed (ˈwôdərˌSHed,ˈwädərˌSHed), noun1.an area or ridge of land that separates waters flowing to different rivers, basins, or seas.Synonyms: divide   "the Mackenzie River watershed"2. an event or period marking a turning point in a course of action or state of affairs."these works mark a watershed in the history of music"Synonyms: turning point, milestone, landmark  "a watershed in the party's history"...Sherlock Holmes’ parents took drastic measures to get his drug use under control by packing him off to Miami, Florida, to a clinic that specialized in teen substance abuse. Sherlock signed himself out on the day after his 18th birthday. Wandering around downtown Miami, he happened on a mystery that shaped the rest of his life in ways he could never have deduced.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have the entire plot of this fic outlined and vowed that I wouldn't start posting until I had the whole thing written. But - I need the encouragement of knowing that someone wants to read to actually motivate me to write, so I'm going ahead and posting with only a few chapters written. 
> 
> Posting will be slow and not at any regular intervals, as I've started back to grad school full time and also work full time. I plan for 15 chapters but it may Grow as a go along - it's the plotiest fic I've attempted. Please subscribe if you'd like to get notices of my updates and thank you so much for reading!
> 
> May-Shepard gave me the gift of this wonderful cover! Thank you May-Shepard!

The day after his 18th birthday, Sherlock knocked on the clinic director’s office door. Without waiting for an invitation, he turned the knob and let himself in. Dr. Hines, the Director, stood in alarm. 

“Sherlock!” Dr. Hines pitched his voice as if he were speaking to a colt in danger of bolting. Sherlock had made quite a name for himself at The Adaptive Center Miami. Sherlock had not fit in with the Center’s philosophy of holistic treatment and mindfulness as a way to overcome addiction. Nor had he fit in with the Center’s other patients, causing near-riots at both group sessions and in the dining room. He’d solicited the staff, offering sex in exchange for drugs, which paid off with a two week stay in the ‘self reflection suite’ - AKA solitary confinement. “You need an appointment. I’m very busy.”

“I’m here to notify you I’m leaving. You cannot hold an adult against his will without a court order. As of yesterday, I am considered a legal adult. I’m here at my parent’s consent, not a court order. So, Dr. Hines, goodbye. I did want to let you know that your clinic is one of the better ones I’ve seen. Keep up the good work, I’m sure you can help the average addict but I am a special case.” With that, Sherlock picked up the duffle bag into which he’d hastily stuffed his meager belongings, closed the door behind him and walked quickly out the clinic’s front door with an almost imperceptible sigh of relief.

Miami is not a walkable town. Sherlock knew he needed to head downtown to score some junk, but he was stranded in Coral Gables with no money and no mobile phone. He didn’t even have the $1.25 for bus fare. He lifted his face and sniffed - his nose told him which way was east by the hint of ocean underneath the exhaust fumes and general city grit in the air. He shouldered his bag and started walking. The sun beat hot on the back of his neck; the underarms of his white T-shirt were soon ringed with perspiration. 

The sun was starting to set when he cut down an alley behind a nightclub, figuring a quick blowjob in the club’s men’s room would get him drugs enough to see him through the night. He glanced to either side then jimmied the lock on the back door. It gave under his skillful tampering and he slipped inside to find himself in a dishroom. Through a propped-open swinging door, he saw a kitchen full of scuttling workers. A coat rack beside the door held aprons - he dropped his bag under it and slipped one on. The shelf above a countertop full of dirty dishes held a stack of paper hats; he donned one of those, too. When he heard footsteps approaching, he leaned over the closest sink and turned both taps on full blast. He slouched, pretending to be engrossed in wiping the plates stacked in the sink. 

“Hello, who are you?” A woman dressed in a white uniform with blonde hair caught up in a hairnet asked. The logo on her jacket said “Roost” in lurid pink embroidery with a multicolored parrot perched on the T. 

“I started last week,” Sherlock replied in a flat American accent. He shrugged.

“Where’s your hairnet?” the woman snapped.

“I forgot.”

With an irritated sigh, the woman turned and disappeared into an office beside the dish room. She returned a few seconds later with a small paper envelope and tossed it to Sherlock. “Don’t forget again.”

Sherlock caught the envelope and pulled out a hairnet. He took off the paper hat and pulled the flimsy net over his hair, tucking his curls into it then replacing the hat. “I won’t.”

“It was in your new employee packet. I expect you to read it and remember the rules. What was your name again?”

“Sam,” Sherlock murmured.

“I won’t write you up for this. Consider this a warning, Sam. Next time, a warning slip will go into your file.”

Sherlock turned back to the sink. “Yeah,” he muttered over his shoulder. At last the irritating woman moved on, probably to terrorize other minimum wage workers who had the bad luck to work in this wretched kitchen. 

Sherlock looked left and right from the doorway, spotting a door on the opposite wall. He started across the kitchen. On his way, he appropriated a plate of food from a waiting tray. Holding it in his hand in the manner of a waiter, he was able to reach the next door unchallenged by any of the workers in the kitchen and slip through. 

He found himself in a long, dark hallway with several dark wood doors. The closest door revealed a storage room stacked with paper products. The next door led to an large office furnished with a huge, dark wood desk and dark red velvet sofas. A bar filled with top shelf liquor stood off to the side of the seating area. Sherlock slipped in and closed the door behind him. He set the plate of food on the desk then circled the large office. He opened another door and found a closet filled with suits and shirts. He slipped on a white dress shirt over his T-shirt. The sleeves were too short and the neck was too big but it would have to do. Next he chose a black suit jacket and red patterned tie. Like the shirt, the jacket was ill fitting but not so bad that a casual observer would notice. With his black jeans and black Converse All Stars, he could pass as a patron.

Sherlock had learned to look anywhere from five years younger than his age to five years older just by adjusting the set of his shoulders and the way he carried his head. Over the years he’d also learned to blend in with a crowd by adopting similar postures and gestures to those around him. He had no doubt he’d be able to pass among the nightclub’s patrons without being detected. 

The large leather desk chair squeaked under his weight as he sat down. He picked up the salmon from the dinner plate with his fingers since he’d neglected to nick a fork. As he chewed, he pulled open drawers in the desk. He found a pistol in the first drawer, a Sig Sauer 9mm semi. He popped the magazine and ejected the chamber, then inserted the ejected cartridge back into the magazine while he chewed another bite. He slid the magazine back into place and set the safety before he wedged it into the small of his back between the waistband of his jeans and his pants. The next drawer yielded a fat cellophane baggie of cocaine. Sherlock licked his pinky, stuck it into the white powder then took a quick taste. Smiling,he stuck the baggie into his sock. The other drawers held nothing of interest so Sherlock shut them quickly, finished off his dinner and slipped out of the office. 

Heavy double doors at the end of the hall lead into the main club. It was getting late, long past the dinner hour, so Sherlock took a moment to adopt the mannerisms of an early-20s clubber, cruising the scene and happy to be out for the night. He scratched a hand through his hair until it tumbled artfully over his forehead and pushed up the sleeves of the jacket and shirt to just below his elbows. Thumping bass from the club music reverberated in Sherlock’s chest as he made his way toward the bar. The dance floor was already crowded with gyrating couples and the bar was lined three-deep with patrons all vying to catch the few bartenders’ attention. Sherlock took up a post against the wall at the end of the bar and watched the activity around him. After a quarter hour he saw a pattern emerge. A middle-aged man seated on a stool in the center of the bar was the middle of the action. Men and women came and went around him like ocean waves, all smiling and jovial and evidently trying to curry his favor. Sherlock deduced the man was both the owner of the establishment and the owner of the clothes he’d nicked, not to mention the gun and cocaine. Grinning maniacally, Sherlock edged into the crowd and worked his way toward the man. 

A hand on his elbow stopped his progress. He spun toward the owner of the hand to find himself looking up into dark eyes set in a swarthy, handsome face. “Hello, doll. I haven’t seen you around here before,” the too-handsome man lisped in a Cuban accent. It was clear this man had seen Scarface and strove to emulate the lead actor of that movie in his dress and actions.

Sherlock grinned wickedly. “It’s my first time here.” He raised an eyebrow rakishly, flirting too-obviously. “I’m Carlos. And you are?”

“Sam,” Sherlock said loudly over the dance music. “I think you should get me a drink, Carlos, before we dance.” Sherlock stuck out one hip and crossed his arms across his chest, the picture of a young man on the prowl.

Carlos edged in between two other patrons and quickly caught the bartender’s attention. He turned back to Sherlock with two tall glasses in his hands. Sherlock took one and sipped. It was over sweet with a biting aftertaste - Seagrams and Seven. Instead of pulling the sour face he felt, Sherlock smiled up into Carlos’ eyes. “Delicious.” 

Carlos maneuvered Sherlock, turning his back toward the bar and crowding him in. Sherlock was well aware of Carlos’ manipulations but feigned ignorance. While appearing relaxed, Sherlock scanned the room and remained aware of the other patrons around them. He pulled the plastic stir stick from his glass and caught Carlos’ eye. He pursed his lips and slid the slim plastic stirrer into his mouth, then sucked gently on it as he slowly drew it back out. Carlos’ eyes widened. Sherlock gave him a sultry smirk in response.

Carlos’ adams apple bobbed as he threw back his head and gulped his drink. “Come on. Let’s dance.”

Sherlock pouted, sticking his lower lip out in a way he knew people found attractive. “I’m thirsty.” He dropped the stirrer into his drink and took a sip.

Carlos leaned over and sucked the drink stirrer. He drained half the glass then swallowed. “Drink up, Sammy boy.” Sherlock did, quickly finishing what remained in the glass. He sat the empty glass on the bar and followed Carlos to the dance floor, threading through the heavy crowd of sweating bodies. Sherlock raised his arms over his head and swayed his hips to the music, undulating in time to the throb of the bass and beat of the drum machine. Carlos danced close into Sherlock’s personal space and rubbed their bodies together. Sherlock wanted to roll his eyes at the clumsy move; instead he put on a blissful expression and smiled. He pressed his chest to Carlos’ then slipped around until he was behind the other man, chest to back. Carlos thrust his arse back into Sherlock’s crotch and wiggled his hips. This time Sherlock didn’t have to stifle the impulse to roll his eyes. He placed both hands on Carlos’ hips and ground into him, swaying back and forth in wide arcs. Carlos responded eagerly, swaying and rolling his hips. Sherlock slipped both hands between them, cupping Carlos’ buttocks and squeezing. At last he had the opportunity for which he’d started this farce of a flirtation - he slipped his right hand into Carlos’ back pocket and slid out the wallet he found there, quickly sliding it into his jacket pocket. 

His goal achieved, Sherlock leaned in to speak into Carlos’ ear. “I need the men’s room.” Carlos turned toward him and Sherlock winked and spun away. He wove through the crowded dance floor and headed straight to a door set in the back wall with a red Emergency Exit sign over it. He slipped out and sprinted down the alley, turned toward the ocean at the cross street, then ran block after block, high on adrenaline, dodging traffic at intersections, not stopping until he’d put at least half a mile between himself and the bar. He ducked behind a parked pickup truck and opened the wallet. He riffled through the credit cards and driver's license but left them in place - he was after cash, $288 that he found folded in the back compartment, removed and slid into the front pocket of his jeans. He passed a US Mail box in the following block and dropped the wallet into the letter slot, counting that a kind postal worker would find Carlos from the information on his driver's license and return the wallet. Sherlock might be a pickpocket, but he wasn’t a dickhead. 

It was well past midnight when Sherlock came upon a fenced-in business yard. Trucks of various sizes were parked in neat rows. He scanned the building and noted the security cameras placed at each corner of the roof. He found a spot in the fence where the chain link was loose against a pole; the two wire brackets that held it in place were slack. It was a matter of minutes for Sherlock to work them loose and slip through the resulting gap. He tried the doors of trucks until he found one unlocked. Grateful that the truck was one of the larger ones, he hauled himself up into the cab and stretched out across the seat. There was enough room for him to lie flat, with his knees bent. A pillow would have been nice but Sherlock improvised by bending his arm under his head. He quickly drifted off to sleep.

*~*

The squeak of door hinges woke Sherlock early the next morning. He scrambled to a sitting position and found himself face to face with a man in Carharts with a hardhat wedged under one arm. Counting on the element of surprise, Sherlock surged forward. Instead of knocking the man over as he’d planned, he found himself swung around by his elbow and held firmly against the driver’s chest. “Frank!” his captor yelled. “Hey Frank!” 

Sherlock heard a voice a short distance away but couldn’t make out the words. He was hauled along, stumbling and cursing, across the paved lot, through a door, through a carpeted room, another doorway and finally into a large air conditioned office. A large man, square head and no-neck, sat sweating behind the desk in a polyester blazer and white dress shirt, tie loosened and top button unbuttoned. Sherlock’s eyes widened when he recognized the man from the nightclub, the middle aged owner who’d held court at the bar the night before. 

The man - Frank - looked at Sherlock like he was a one of South Florida’s legendarily huge cockroaches. “What’s this?” 

Sherlock was surprised by the man’s British accent. It didn’t fit with his looks - he looked more like a Mobster than an Englishman.

“I found him sleeping in number 19 dumptruck, Frank. Some punk vagrant, probably trying to rip off equipment to sell for scrap to get drug money.” The worker who’d found and captured Sherlock shook him once then released him.

Straightening his spine, Sherlock stood with confidence he didn’t feel. He smoothed the front of his shirt and pushed up the sleeves of the jacket he still wore, the one he’d lifted at the nightclub the night before - the jacket that belonged to the intimidating man before him. He faced the boss - Frank - as if he owned the place. 

Frank looked Sherlock up and down. He took a cigar out of the top desk drawer and took his time clipping the end then lighting it, not glancing at Sherlock again. When a glowing coal was well established, Frank took a long draw and looked directly into Sherlock’s defiant eyes. “So tell me, kid. What are you doing in my truck?”

Sherlock swallowed, raised his chin a notch then answered. “I found a weakness in your perimeter security. I wasn’t trying to steal anything, just looking for a place to sleep.” Sherlock played up his posh British accent, putting it on rather thicker than he usually did in America.

The effect on Frank was instantaneous - as soon as Sherlock had started to speak, Frank had lowered his cigar into a glass ashtray and sat forward with an expression of shock on his face. Once Sherlock finished his brief declaration, Frank gestured to the men standing behind Sherlock. “Out!” he growled. The workmen scrambled to clear the office; the last one slammed the door behind him. 

Frank rose and turned the latch to lock the door. He rounded on Sherlock, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him down nose-to-nose with Frank’s flushed face. “Who are you and who sent you? If you’re from Jim, I swear to god, I will cut your dick off and send it back to him in a shoebox.” He shook Sherlock - hard - by the shirt collar, then thrust him toward a Naugahyde chair with arms studded in brass accent tacks. Sherlock fell into the chair, stunned. Frank leaned over and growled into Sherlock’s face again, “Who the fuck are you, punk? Start talking or I rack you with my steel-toed boots.”

Sherlock glanced down. Frank was, indeed, wearing steel-toed workboots. He drew a shaky breath and tried to summon the bravado he’d felt earlier. “My name is Bill. I’m here in Miami at a drug and alcohol clinic. My parents sent me here to get clean.” The waver in his voice embarrassed Sherlock but he couldn't seem to damp it down. Suddenly he felt very alone and very frightened. No one knew where he was - not his parents, not his meddling older brother, no friends; no one. “I signed myself out yesterday. My birthday, when I turned 18, they couldn't hold me any more. I wasn’t going to steal any of your equipment. I just wanted a place to sleep.”

Frank straightened and surveyed Sherlock coldly. “If you tell me how you got in, I might let you walk out of here with your balls.” 

Sherlock shivered at the note of sincerity in the older man’s voice. He had no doubt that this Frank had cut off his share of bollocks in his time. “I found your cameras, calculated the angle of their coverage, then found a weak spot in the fence between coverage boundaries.” It dawned on Sherlock that he could parlay this knowledge for his own safety. He leaned forward, trying to show just enough eagerness to gain Frank’s trust, but not enough to seem too overeager. “If you let me go, I can show you where and how to fix it.” He smiled, just a lift of the corners of his mouth.

Frank went around his desk and dropped into his chair. He rubbed his temples with one blunt hand, thumb and forefinger working the flesh of his face in small circles. With a sigh, he looked up at Sherlock. “How the hell did a British kid end up breaking into my yard and sleeping in my truck? I want to believe you, kid. I do. But it’s just too much of a coincidence.”

Sherlock leaned forward eagerly. “There’s no such thing as coincidence. The universe is not that lazy.” He leaned back into his seat and rattled off deductions without much thought: “You need someone to take the load off your back. Construction is only one of number of businesses you own. You can’t find trustworthy managers to run them. Someone is dipping into the till at one of your establishments but you can’t narrow it down, so you don’t know who.” Sherlock stop to swallow. “Give me an hour there and I can tell you who has their hand in the cashbox.”

Frank’s brow furrowed. “Are you for real, kid?”

Sherlock nodded. 

Frank gave him an appraising stare, narrowing his eyes and pursing his lips. “I’m supposed to believe you without any proof. Right, kid, what kind of fool do you take me for?”

Heaving a sigh, Sherlock sat forward. “Give me a chance. You can call my brother, he’ll verify my identity.”

Frank picked up the cigar and took a few puffs, obviously considering his options. 

“I’ll write down my brother’s number. I’m sure the clinic has called my parents by now and they’d have called him. They’re all bound to be in a stir. You’d be doing them a favor by calling, letting them know I’m okay.” Sherlock was pleading now. This interrogation had gone on to long - his nerves were shot, and he hadn’t even used the cocaine he'd scored last night from the man who sat in front of him. Sherlock hoped Frank wouldn't frisk him and find the baggie in his sock - the baggie Frank would surely recognize. Frank seemed to shaken up to recognize the shirt and jacket Sherlock wore as his own. But surely the man would recognize it all, and realize that Sherlock had burgled his office, if he found the drugs.

He never begged, but extreme circumstances called for extreme measures. “Please, Frank.” The watery note in his voice wasn't an act. Sherlock was terrified.

Flicking ash from the tip of his cigar, Frank spoke softly. “If you’re fucking with me, kid, cutting off your balls will be the least of what I’ll do. If you’re one of Jim’s goons, I’ll break every one of your fucking fingers. Then I’ll twist your kneecaps around to the back of your knees so you won’t even be able to sit down to take a shit. And if you do somehow manage to sit down, you won’t be able to wipe your ass.” He picked up a pen from the desktop and a notepad then held them out to Sherlock.

Hands shaking, Sherlock took them and quickly scribbled Mycroft’s office number. He prayed that Mycroft was in his Diogenes Club office today. Frank took the notepad from Sherlock and glanced at it. “A transatlantic call costs a bundle.”

“I can pay for it,” Sherlock offered.

Frank shook his head. He lifted the receiver of his desk phone. “Miriam, I got a transatlantic call I need you to place.” He rattled off the number then advised ‘Miriam’ to let him know when the call had connected then sat back, folded his hands over his paunchy middle and regarded Sherlock. “I believe you, kid. That’s why I’m calling your brother. I’m sure your parents are shittting their pants worried about you. Hopefully your brother can book you a ticket. I’ll make sure you get to the airport.”

“No!” Sherlock nearly screamed. “No, I don't want to go home.” He sprang from the chair, staring around wildly for a method of egress. The locked door was the only exit from the windowless office. “Frank, don’t send me home. I can help you in your business. I can, I can help you with this Jim who’s after you. Just don’t send me home.”

Frank held up a beefy mit. “Whoa, kid. Sit down.” He paused while Sherlock sank into the vinyl chair. “Why don’t you want to go home?”

Sherlock licked his lips and stared at the floor in front of him. “I can’t. They hate me there. My parents will send me back to school to finish my A levels and I can’t. I can’t go back there.” Tears sprang into his eyes. “They do terrible things, things I don’t want to … please. I don’t want to go back. Give me a job, I can wash your equipment or clean your buildings. Anything.”

Coming around the desk once again, Frank stared down at the top of Sherlock’s curly head while silent tears leaked down Sherlock’s cheeks. “Ok, kid. I’ll cancel that call. I can always call them later if you turn out to be a little shit.” He bellowed “Miriam” over his shoulder. “Cancel that call,” then hauled Sherlock up by the back of his shirt collar. “Stop sniveling. I’m going to send you to get cleaned up and fed. My wife will take care of you. Help her out at home today, wash the windows or something for her. I’ll decide what I want to do with you.” 

He hauled Sherlock to the door, unlocked then threw it open to bellow, “Saul!”

The man who’d discovered Sherlock sleeping in the truck appeared. Frank continued, “Take this skinny puke home. Tell Martha to feed him and put him to work. He can scrub the toilets or something. Tell her to keep him busy until I get home.” He glowered at Sherlock. “Make yourself useful, Billy, or I will make that phone call.”

Sherlock nodded and stuttered out, “Thank you, sir,” as he followed Saul through the door.

~*~

Sherlock was stunned when Saul lead him to a black Mercedes. He’d expected to ride in a pickup truck or even one of the smaller flatbed trucks parked in rows. Saul hit the door unlock button and waited for Sherlock to fold himself into the passenger seat. “Buckle your seatbelt. There’s a new state law, you can get a ticket if you don’t buckle up.”

Nodding, Sherlock buckled himself in while Saul sped out of the gate. The driver remained silent as he navigated the crowded city streets then took an onramp to the interstate highway. Sherlock hadn’t seen much of Miami. His brother had flown over with him and had taken their rental car straight from the airport to the clinic. Sherlock watched the tall downtown buildings taper off to one- and two-story structures. Eventually the city dwindled to housing developments with artificially fertilized, lush lawns. Saul left the interstate and took a series of turns on winding suburban streets - Sherlock concentrated on memorizing their route and recording the turns in his near-photographic memory. They finally turned into a long drive that lead to a very large, white limestone house. The crushed limestone of the circular drive in front glittered in the morning sunlight. Saul stopped the car before the front steps. He unlocked the doors and gestured for Sherlock to get out.

Following Saul up the steps, Sherlock looked around. The property was surrounded by a tall, decorative iron fence but there was no gate. A portico at the top of the steps was held aloft by thick limestone pillars. Glossy black, double front doors with frosted sidelights sat in the shadow cast by the portico’s roof. Saul reached for the doorknob and a shiver of anticipation raced up Sherlock’s spine. He wasn’t sure where this misadventure was headed, he wasn’t even sure if he’d make it out alive. He didn’t even know Frank’s last name or why he’d relented and cancelled the call to Sherlock’s brother. But one thing Sherlock felt in his bones: whatever was on the other side of that door would shape his life in a way he couldn't even conceive.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets Mrs. Hudson. All isn't as it seems at the Hudson household.

Sherlock followed Saul into the air conditioned coolness of a large foyer. He looked up to see the molded plaster ceiling, two stories above, with an ornate brass-and-crystal chandelier hanging from a thick, brass chain. The walls were papered in seafoam green and peach geometric designs and the marble tile floor bore a darker green and orange Oriental rug. The air smelled of a pungent scent that Sherlock knew well, one he’d hoped to find again the night before: marijuana. Saul led Sherlock to a living room off the foyer, where a faint haze hung in the air. A color TV blared General Hospital loud enough to hurt Sherlock’s ears - Sherlock knew the daytime soaps from the day room TV at the rehab clinic. They had been _torture_ to endure during the time he was forced to spend there.

“Mrs. Hudson!” Saul nearly bellowed.

A sofa faced the TV, its back to the doorway of the room. A small figure rose from it and turned toward them. “Oh, Saul! Come in, come in.” A petite middle-aged woman rounded the sofa and approached them. She took Saul by the elbow and drew him to one of the chairs bracketing the sofa. “I was just watching my soaps. And who is this?” She turned to Sherlock with eyes that were red-rimmed yet still bright and alert.

Saul answered before Sherlock could open his mouth. “Frank said to feed this kid and put him to work. I found him sleeping in one of the trucks this morning. Broke into the yard last night.”

Mrs. Hudson’s eyebrows flew toward her hairline. “Broke in!” He eyes locked on Sherlock’s. “You broke into Frank’s yard? With all of his security?”

Sherlock swallowed and nodded.

Mrs. Hudson grinned. Her eyes twinkled at Sherlock.

“Anyway, his name’s Billy. I gotta get back. Frank said to put him to work, so he’d better be plenty tired when Frank gets home.” With that, Saul retreated through the foyer and out the back door. 

Sherlock watched him go; a sense of unreality settled around him. How had he gone from inpatient drug rehab to a posh Miami mansion in less than 24 hours? 

He glanced at the small woman again; her gaze swept him up and down, appraising. Sherlock felt something he’d never felt before: he wanted her to like what she saw, to be proud of him, even … fond. He hadn’t been arsed to care what any other person had thought before - especially his mother. Why did this woman, much smaller than his mother and reeking of weed, elicit this feeling? His eyebrows furrowed as he pondered the mystery of why he cared what Mrs. Hudson, wife to the odious thug Frank, thought of him.

“Oh now, don’t scowl, young man. You’ve got such a handsome face, you don’t want to give yourself frown lines when you’re older. Even at your age, you’ve got to be thinking toward the future,” Mrs. Hudson said with a smile.

Her gentle chiding touched a place deep inside Sherlock’s heart, a place he’d kept locked away since he was very young, a place he’d tried to stuff full of opioids and stimulants and weed and alcohol. He felt as if something were expanding in his chest, pushing his ribcage out to make more room for this feeling. His brow smoothed out as he smiled. 

“Now, there, that’s better. Come over here and sit down. Tell me all about how you came to cross paths with Frank. Imagine! Breaking into Frank’s building yard! He must have been livid!” Mrs. Hudson chuckled and her eyes twinkled at Sherlock again. She sat on the sofa and patted the seat beside her.

Sherlock rounded the sofa and sank into the soft cushions. He glanced toward the telly and the detritus on the coffee table before him. A commercial for feminine hygiene products showing a young woman riding a horse in white jodhpurs and white blouse blared on the expensive television. A green glass ashtray near his knee held the partially smoked joint that Mrs. Hudson had obviously snuffed out when they entered the room. 

Mrs. Hudson noticed his eyes linger on the ashtray. “I don’t believe you’re old enough yet for an herbal soother. I’ve got a bad hip - helps with the pain.” She patted her hip as she spoke.

“Eighteen. Yesterday was my birthday. I’m an adult.” Sherlock spoke matter-of-factly while he watched the coal glow on the end of the joint in the ashtray.

Mrs. Hudson chuckled. “Well, if you were my son, I wouldn’t want you getting up to stuff like this.” She picked up ashtray then sat it on the floor beside her feet. “Tell me now, how did a young Englishman come to be sleeping in Frank’s truck?”

Sherlock blinked and met her eyes. While he yearned for the soothing of marijuana, he found it wasn’t a gnawing hunger. Maybe some of what The Adaptive Center Miami preached had seeped into his subconscious mind. He drew a breath then puffed out has cheeks as he blew it out then rubbed the back of his head with one hand as began. “My parents and brother packed me off to Miami to dry out.” He made air quotes as he spoke the last two words. “I signed myself out on my birthday. They can’t hold me against my will now. I’m of age.”

“Dry out? Where have you been?”

“The Adaptive Center Miami.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded slowly. “Yes, I know that clinic. It’s one of the best for teens and young people.” She glanced at him with compassion in her eyes. “It’s hard to be so far away from your family. Did you plan to work a bit, until you could afford a ticket home?”

“It’s not hard at all to be away from my family,” Sherlock said softly.

Reaching across the space between them, Mrs. Hudson patted his hand where it lay on the sofa. “Young people want to be on their own, make their own way in the world. I was your age once, young man. I remember.” She stood and looked around the room. “Did you have a bag, Billy?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I left my backpack at Frank’s office.” Under the pretence of scratching his ankle, Sherlock reassured himself that the cocaine he’d stashed in his sock the prior evening was still in place. Frank seemed not to have recognized his own shirt and jacket - but he’d surely recognize his coke if Sherlock had left it in his backpack and Frank had rifled through it.

“Well, it was kind of Frank to lend you some clothes. Though it looks like you’ve used them rather hard in such a short time. You’re all wrinkled.”

Sherlock couldn’t suppress the broad smile that flashed across his face. “He wasn’t too kind.”

Mrs. Hudson looked confused. Sherlock took pity on her. “I lifted these from his closet last night. He doesn’t know.”

A hollow terror took over Mrs. Hudson’s kind eyes as her hands flew to her heart, clasping tightly in front of her chest. “Oh! Young man, you don’t _steal_ from Frank Hudson!” Her hands fluttered outward in a helpless gesture. “Get those off. Right now! Hurry, Frank might come home.” She sprang to her feet and pulled at Sherlock’s shoulder. “Come on, there’s clothes upstairs. You can change.” Without waiting for a reply, Mrs. Hudson hurried out of the room and toward the foyer.

Sherlock, confused at the kind lady’s abrupt change of demeanor, followed. She was halfway up the staircase by the time Sherlock entered the foyer. Her frightened face turned toward him as she hissed, “Hurry!”

Snapping into action, Sherlock took the stairs two at a time and overtook Mrs. Hudson by the time she reached the top. He followed her down a hallway leading off to the right of the upstairs foyer and into the second doorway on the right. It was a spacious bedroom furnished with a large bed, dark wood dresser and nightstand. 

Mrs. Hudson opened a door in the wall opposite the bed and Sherlock saw a private bathroom. “You’ll want a shower. There are clothes in the dresser that should fit you. Leave Frank’s things in the bathroom, I’ll get them when you’re done.” With a final frightened glance around, Mrs. Hudson retreated down the hall.

Sherlock took a moment to scan the room before he moved. The furniture was of high quality and the Oriental rug that covered the white tile floor looked hand-knotted. With a jerk to the top pull, Sherlock found a drawer full of elastic and drawstring waist athletic shorts, t-shirts and white athletic socks. The second drawer contained more of the same, plus sweat pants and fleece hoodies - everything he could need except pants. With a shrug at that omission, Sherlock picked out a navy blue t-shirt and navy shorts with white stripes running down the outer seam of both legs. He carried them into the bathroom, then stripped and stepped into the shower. 

Hot water always helped him think. He ruminated on his current situation: the kind lady who seemed so frightened that he’d borrowed her husband’s clothing, the husband that seemed to instill fear in everyone Sherlock had met so far. The ostentatious mansion he found himself confined to - the fact that his family had no idea where he was and the fact that the bedroom he’d been assigned to use lacked a telephone extension. Even if it had had a phone, would he have wanted to call his family? 

Washing his hair with the toiletries he found in the shower stall, Sherlock came to a decision. He’d wait it out, at least for a few days. He could always slip away if need be, call his brother or parents, and be on a plane back to England in a few hours. But for now, he’d go along with Frank and try to find out more about his business dealings, and why his wife seemed terrified of him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to MissDavis and DulcimerGecko, lovely betas who have helped so much.


End file.
